


what do you do when it's so brand new that it kills you

by orchiids (orphan_account)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Plenty of blood, [SWEATS], idk if this counts as "sad" but the alt. title for this fic is Junkrat Fucks Up, if it isnt realistic thats bc its the FUTURE, if u get squicked by amputation ment this is not the fic for u, im taking massive liberties with the science of prosthetic limbs so, torbjorn is a smug ass little grandpa. i love him, tw for gore!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-18 07:36:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7305553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orchiids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has only ever seen him laughing, shouting, surrounded by flames, drumming his fingers on tables and clacking with his bad leg on the tile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

Zenyatta comes down beside her from a rooftop and lands badly. He is buffered by whatever force causes him to float, but his fine metal joints pop and the electric crackle compels Symmetra to look around at him.

 

"Y-" she begins, but the sound extinguishes itself. A better person might have said, 'Are you all right?', but she needs a thirty-second advance warning to ever speak. She gifts him a shield, silently, and he whirrs off. "Find Torbjorn", she calls at the last moment, "or Mercy!" Symmetra sees the little omnic nod back at her in the distance, and feels a quiet relief. She leans on the sun-bleached rock and observes her post; three sentries here, others scattered around the area to serve as a distraction. Teleporter set up to get everyone around faster, and so that she knows where everyone is.

 

It makes her so nervous having the team running around in disarray, out of order—just like this little red sphere that's bounced into her territory, knocking against the cobbled road. When it rolls through the gate and the sunlight touches it, and its black painted smile grins up at her, she thinks, _how ugly_ . Then, _oh gods_ — _run_ , and she takes one strained step back—

 

And it explodes and she screams, of course she screams like a primal thing, like an animal, because after all these years she doesn't know better than this white flash in her eyes, hot feeling in her midsection, ringing in her ears, her perfect white and blue spattered with—with _red_. Symmetra hears gunfire in the background, dimly, and then the heavy, irregular step-click, step-click of some imperfect thing approaching.

 

"Oh, my God." it breathes, and it's bent over her. "Oh, my God. Sym, I'm so sorry. I sees this flash of black and I think, right, that'll be Reaper, and I shoot, right, but I hear you yell 'n I thought 'Junkrat, you bloody idiot, you'd better not have', but I did, and I—" It stops for breath, and its eyes are wide and staring. "Hey—Sym—you with me?"

 

 _Sym_ , thinks Symmetra. "Don't call me Sym," she says as an instinctive response, but it hurts her stomach to speak. The hunched thing smiles, smiles wide like the little grinning bomb, and finally she can put a name to a face. "Faw-"

 

He begins to roll his eyes and stops himself. "Er, yeah. Yeah—that's it, Sym, that's me! How, er, how d'you feel?"

 

Symmetra is tricky about names. Callsigns be damned, she needs a Miss or Mister to anchor herself. It was always 'Ms. Oxton', 'Mr. Winston', 'Dr. Ziegler'. Then, reluctantly, 'Mr. Roadhog', but Junkrat became Mr. Fawkes, ("What—no, c'mon, we's all teammates here, ain't we?") and as an act of protest, Symmetra herself became Sym.

 

"What-", she splutters, "what—?"

 

"Sym, you got to understand, I thought you was Reaper or—God almighty—does it hurt?" Junkrat slaps his temple with the heel of his hand, and hisses, "Fuckin' idiot, of course it hurts!" Louder, calmer, he tells her, "OK, er—shit—I'm going to tie it, alright? You're—yeah." He cuts himself off and sets to work; fiddling with his harness, trying to tear it into pieces before realizing he has a belt to work with.

 

Something pinches at her thigh and Symmetra breathes in sharply. "Is there. . .is something—my leg?" she burbles.

 

"Is something wrong with your leg?" Junkrat says, slow, wavering. He stops his work to look her in the eyes, which is uncomfortable, so Symmetra looks instead to where she can feel his hands. She's flat on her back, and there's only this expanse of blue and red, but she can see his forearms and the blood smears mixing with soot, matting the light hair there to his skin. "Sym, bloody hell Sym your leg's off."

 

"No-" she says, "I—let me—!" She struggles to sit up against the bleak stone wall, trying to get leverage with her right leg which is clearly, obviously there she can feel his hands on it, she can feel the fabric at her knee broken and scratchy.

 

Fawkes—Junkrat she supposes is fine if it's only in her head—he's a joker, and that's fine at times, that's what he has chosen to do with himself, but this is too far; can't even he understand that? And she struggles and he has the audacity to _hold her down_ with this look of desperation in his eyes and she forgets about courtesy and lets her metal elbow connect with his face, watches him reel back cursing, drags herself with her arms back toward a wall, sits up at last, keeps her eyes upward not because she's afraid to find her leg a bloody stump but because she can breathe this way and she's so tired—

 

"Sym-" she didn't hit him hard enough he's made his way over "Sym. Symmetra." his voice is thick with blood that's almost satisfying to hear "Don't you fuckin' cark it now, all right?" His dirty, thick-skinned hands are on her shoulders hasn't this gone far enough and she looks briefly at his eyes which have been boring into hers and they're—shining? Shining? Brimming over with— what, with tears?

 

Symmetra looks down, teeth chattering, and there's a bloody trail pooling in the cracks between the stones, leading up to some raw thing protruding from her hip, flesh torn away in places, white—no— _bone?_ —flashing in the sunlight, muscle mangled and so, so horrendously ugly. She begins to cry.

 

"Just-" Junkrat wipes at his eyes with the back of one hand and it's a pathetic, useless effort, there's already tracks on his face, pale lines chalked through the filth. "Let me tie this up, all right?"

 

Symmetra sits self-possessedly and focuses on composing herself. Breathe in for seven counts—ek—do—teen—cāra—pāṃca—chaḥ—sāta—out for eleven. In through the nose, out through the mouth but on second thought not because she might scream again right when things are so tranquil. She turns her attention to Junkrat, who is finishing up with what she's realized is a tourniquet, and is now pressing at her leg—her stump—with some faded green cloth.

 

She has only ever seen him laughing, shouting, surrounded by flames, drumming his fingers on tables and clacking with his bad leg on the tile. It makes it all the more surreal to see him sitting, placid, red-faced, at her side, completely ignoring his own bloodied nose and split upper lip, the picture of quiet concentration.  

 

She recalls asking him once, hands over ears, to please, kindly, at her humble request, if he would be so considerate, to keep down the noise only a little bit, and that now when they find themselves in the same room he _sees_ her shrink into herself when someone is being a little too boisterous: sometimes he himself is the offender, and will stop in his tracks and grace her with the odd "Oh, piss—sorry Sym!". Once, and only once, it was Roadhog who had laughed his loud and wheezing laugh, shouting with mirth, and Junkrat had seen her screw up her eyes and elbowed him. And he had stopped.

 

"Your indoor voice is pleasant." she says, exhaling a hitching breath. "I had not thought that you possessed one."

 

"How about that, a fair dinkum compliment." Junkrat mutters, still fixed on her leg. Something like a smile softens his expression at the sides, and Symmetra marvels; he looks so un-Junkrat-like and yet perfectly, totally Junkrat-like. Some errant strands of his hair catch the light; _spun gold_ she thinks, holding back a laugh.

 

"Mis-"

 

"If you bloody call me Mr. Fawkes again-" Junkrat tries to sound threatening, but his voice cracks when he lapses into his typically high voice, so he settles for sounding tired. "Just—can we not, Sym?"

 

"What then?"

 

"Junkrat, all right? Junkrat. Might not seem like no proper name to you, but I ain't been no Mr. Fawkes in my life, 'right?"

 

Symmetra breathes out long and slow. "Fine."

 

"Now listen," says Junkrat, "I think the bleedin's mostly gone down, so I'm gonna run and get Mercy—donno what's takin' em so long anyway. Be back in half a sec, all right? She'll be apples. Promise. You'll be OK." He gives her shoulders a little shake, sets a steel trap in the entrance for good measure, and hobbles off, step-click, step-click.

 

Symmetra remembers to provide him a shield and watches his form disappear across the field, glowing blue for a moment. Step-click.

 

Just as she catches her eyes drifting shut again, the tap-tap-tap and thud-thud-thud mix with the uneven sound of Junkrat's gait, and she knows the others are here.

 

"Hold it." she hears Soldier 76's grizzled order, and looks up in time to see him push aside the steel trap with one boot. "Were you gonna warn us about that?" He eyes Junkrat.

 

"Yeah, my bad."

 

Mercy ignores them and approaches Symmetra. With a gentle and practiced smile, she kneels to inspect the damage. "Symmetra? It's Mercy. How do you feel—? On a scale of-"

 

"Six. Perhaps seven. It must be shock or something equal, but I am not in significant pain." Symmetra recites the response she had rehearsed. "Can it be reattached?"

 

"I'm sorry." says Mercy, tactful as ever.

 

"We saw it everywhere on the way over." Junkrat lets slip, and immediately covers his face with his hands. "Stupid sod. I'm not here. I said no such thing."

 

Symmetra laughs. It's not a polite laugh nor a bitter laugh nor a wry chuckle and she isn't sure why it's bubbling from her like this, considering the circumstances. Casting her gaze around the room, she sees Mercy look away. Soldier 76, who looms in the doorway, shakes his head at Junkrat and then steps forward. "We're taking you back to base to get stabilized."

 

"But the mission—"

 

"It can wait. Let's move." With a nod in Mercy's direction, Soldier 76 scoops up Symmetra and they head off, with Junkrat trailing behind. He quickens his pace to address her; "Sym, they've got me gatherin' up everyone to head back, so I got to leave real quick. Be back soon's I can though, that all right with you?"

 

"Of course." Symmetra furrows her brow and moves in 76's grip to look Junkrat in the eye for a moment.

 

"Right. Only makin' sure." He gives her a sheepish half-smile; modest, but showing teeth like the normal Junkrat would. It's almost reassuring. He speeds off lopsidedly to find the others.

 

76 sets her down on a rocky outcrop, with carved steps that lead into the side of a building, to wait for the team. Mercy begins to stitch and bandage the stump, which doesn't hurt so much as it feels unnatural. She removes the makeshift tourniquet and replaces it with a medical-grade one ("You'd be surprised how many field amputations—oh, well, maybe you wouldn't").

 

Symmetra doesn't quite hear her, but when Mercy finishes up she looks at the stump, even wiggles it, trying to stuff down the hot revulsion rising like bile in her throat. Step-click, she thinks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have you noticed im an em dash fucker... my one flaw... on a higher note i love these two and you can see this as platonic if you like but i wrote it with full romo in mind >B) EXPECT MORE & flood me with prompts at my tumblr @shiqq pls
> 
> EDIT: changed a few lines at the end for clarity!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gunpowder and sweat and slight, shaky arms enfolding her slow the relentless pain to something manageable, and instead of screaming anymore she cries like a child and forgets her English when, between hiccups, silly things escape her like "I want to go home" and "I'm going to die".

For a short while, Satya had felt little pain; she had told Mercy that it was probably the shock. And it was—it seems like the aircraft has barely taken off when her leg begins to ache just a bit, and soon enough the whole limb is burning up to her hip as though some beast is taking the muscles between its claws and tearing them out and the world feels like a photo taken in bright light with a bad camera and when she begins to scream Mercy leans over Pharah and takes her arm and steadies it and, grimacing, pushes a needle into a vein there and presses down the plunger.

 

Pharah puts a wide, firm hand on Satya's and squeezes. "The pain will be over soon."

 

It is a nice gesture and Satya feels almost ungrateful to keep screaming but her jaw is forcing itself open and everything is too bright, she needs to lie down and there's no room so she lets herself sink to the floor; Pharah is still holding her hand and kneels to let her down softly. Satya searches for something, anything to muffle the screaming and finds herself cushioned, screaming into someone's wiry chest. Gunpowder and sweat and slight, shaky arms enfolding her slow the relentless pain to something manageable, and instead of screaming anymore she cries like a child and forgets her English when, between hiccups, silly things escape her like "I want to go home" and "I'm going to die".

 

"Pretty language, that." she hears someone murmur.

 

A short and awkward laugh, from farther away. "Man, for all you know she's cursing your ass out."

 

"She'd be bloody right." answers the first voice evenly.

 

Satya opens her eyes, and wishes she hadn't. Her vision pulses, and it feels like the world is bouncing in a tumble-dryer. "I may be sick." she mouths more than speaks.

 

"Wuzzat? D'you want me to move then, or-?"

 

The voice is talking again and she grips tightly at something floating in front of her to make it stop; someone's thin arm, she finds, and her hands wrap around it.

 

"Right then. S'pose I've had worse."

 

New tears volley down her face, but Satya remains quiet, gasping silently until an airless bubble forms in her chest and then trying to draw unsteady breaths until the doctor's smiling voice says something like _it's taking effect_ and a deep, grounding exhaustion finally stills her erratic movements, and drops her easily into a warm and soft night.

 

* * *

 

Symmetra wakes in the infirmary, with the sound of talking like rain in the background until her perception clears and she makes out Mercy and Torbjorn's voices from the corner of the room.

 

"—can't expect her to remain here after what happened!"

 

"And why ever not? She's been mighty useful to us so far."

 

"This isn't about whether she's _useful_ , it's about whether she wants to stay, and I'll tell you that anyone in her state will be out of here in a moment."

 

"Not without a leg, they won't."

 

Mercy stares icily down at him, and turns sharply on her heel, lab coat swishing behind her. Symmetra can hear the faint tap of her heels on the floor as the doctor approaches, and acts as though she's just waking up, letting her eyelids flutter open.

 

"Oh—Symmetra, you're awake. How do you feel?"

 

"Decently." answers Symmetra honestly. She notices there's a drip attached to an IV in her arm, she can feel the tube pulling weakly under her skin. "Do you know when I will be able to get back to work, Dr. Ziegler?"

 

"Work?" Mercy raises her eyebrows. "I had meant to discuss with you the terms of your release from the contract."

 

"Am I being discharged?" For a moment, Symmetra feels her eyes widen, but fights to level her expression.

 

"By no means. We had only assumed you would want to return home. . ." Mercy frowns. "Of course, if you choose to stay, we do have the means to accommodate you."

 

"Then that is what I would prefer."

 

Mercy gives a nod of acknowledgment and checks something on the clipboard atop which her fingers are curled. "We kept you in a coma for a few days to allow the fever to subside. Do you feel well enough—ah, would you like to speak with Torbjorn about a potential prosthetic? Or do you want to rest for the time being?"

 

"First one." Symmetra is tired and there's a hollow nibbling in the cavity of her chest and she hasn't the energy to say all these words. Mercy motions for Torbjorn to come over.

 

"You were out for a good long while, girl. Great beanpole's been tearin' out even more hair than he's already missin'." Torbjorn chuckles heartily at his own joke, then reaches for his belt and pulls out some blueprints, pointedly ignoring Mercy's glare.

 

How odd that Junkrat would worry so. He doesn't seem the worrying type.

 

"Anyway," continues Torbjorn in his strange Swedish cadence, "Angela insisted you'd be out of here right away, but I drew up a few plans for a new leg anyway, and look who was right." He tries to spread the blue pages out on a small white end table, but they refuse to lie still.

 

"Don't you have a tablet of some sort for these jobs?" asks Symmetra, and her tone must have been wrong; Torbjorn huffs.

 

"All that fancy computer stuff. I've always used paper and pen. Now, do you want to see them or no?"

 

Does she? Symmetra considers it. Trying to mold hard light to the form of the human body is one of her few weak points, and she's only ever _attempted_ hands, fingers, arms.

 

"You don't want to use that cheapo light garbage when it comes to your own leg, hey?"

 

Smug little dwarf. "Continue, then."

 

"A wise choice. So," he begins, "the most important thing, especially for the legs, is that the fit of the socket is smooth and comfortable. It helps to use a sleek, pliable material."

 

"Such as hard light?"

 

" _No_. Now, we can make this thing look as much as possible like your old one, or we can make it fun."

 

Symmetra suppresses a shiver. She's going to end up half-sentry turret. "Define fun, please."

 

"Well, we can adjust it for maneuverability, so you can get out of a tight spot quicker. Or we can focus on combat efficiency, to compensate for that disaster of a gun."

 

"My photon blaster serves me well, thank you."

 

"Whatever you say. Take a look at some of my drafts—" Torbjorn spreads out the first blue roll, keeping it in place by hand, and Symmetra feels the urge to cry. The prosthetic smacks of old 2040s designs; clunky Bastion units, Mercy's angular boots, Torbjorn's own metal arm that looks as though it might still be steam-powered.

 

"What else do you have?"

 

"OK, I knew that one was a long shot. Here. You'll like this."

 

And, oddly enough, she does. The design outlined on the old-fashioned blue paper looks like something Vishkar would issue; its form is rounded and streamlined, and Torbjorn has shaded it in crudely to indicate that the entire thing is white. The foot is even arched as a human's, not touching the ground in the middle and with toes on hinge joints spreading from the fleshy—metal-y—pad. She might even wear a shoe over it.

 

"That one will do, I suppose."

 

Torbjorn smiles shrewdly. "Hear me out now; thrusters in the back of the ankle and shin to let you get ‘round faster."

 

"That is prepos—!"

 

"I'm dead serious, girl. Give you a hand setting up those contraptions everywhere and send you jetting off to safety if someone chucks a bomb at you again. I bet I can even get 'em working off that sissy hard light stuff if you want."

 

"…You have my attention."

 

* * *

 

 After at least three hours of heated discussion, Torbjorn concedes the point of whether the varnish on the prosthesis should gleam or not and takes off to his workshop to begin construction. Mercy, now in a button-down shirt and black slacks, brings up some food and, while Symmetra thanks her for it, she  forsakes the tray on the end table as soon as the doctor turns away and sinks into her pillow to sleep.

 

She wakes at an indeterminate hour; there is only the cold of a breeze through the open window at her back, and the chattering of birds, and the absence of Mercy who would be flitting through the infirmary at any other time. A distinct feeling of unease overtakes her, the sensation of a thick and smothering shadow all around; she moves to conjure up a light, but she isn't wearing her white vambrace. Venturing a hand across the floor, she can feel it disassembled in a pile maybe a meter and a half from her bed. Satya moves to stand up, but realizes too late that when she swings one leg over the side of the bed, the other one will not follow. She falls hard to the linoleum floor, IV stand clattering on top of her. _Bahut achchhe, Satya_. Blindly, easily, she clicks each component of the arm into place and drags herself back onto the bed so that she's sitting on its edge, toes touching the floor.

 

She wastes no time weaving a tactile light to carry with her, and contemplates her next move under its blue glow. It will be good to get some fresh air. No one will be up at this hour to pelt her with questions, she hopes.

 

Now, Satya thinks, how to transport herself. . .how do amputees transport themselves? She has more dignity than to crawl, surely—oh! Crutches.

 

"I can do that," she mutters to herself. The structure is fairly simple. Smooth and concave across the top, two parts leading into a singular base, hand grips somewhere. Yes. She visualizes a smooth white-and-blue structure and, sure enough, a rudimentary crutch assembles from the particles of light that swirl at her arms. Cautious, Satya tests her weight on it. Seems to hold up well. She replicates the pattern and, satisfied, makes her way out of the infirmary. Her bare foot pats on the tile, and her crutches click. Pat-click pat-click, Symmetra is asymmetrical.

 

The common room is mercifully empty, but in some small corner of her perception Satya swears there are muffled explosions. Heart rate soaring, she clicks her way up to the balcony to escape, sliding the glass door shut behind her.

 

"Hard time sleepin', eh?"

 

Satya suppresses a shout of alarm and squints at the figure with its arms folded on the railing. ". . .Junkrat."

 

"Fuck oath." says Junkrat matter-of-factly.

 

There is a pause. Satya cannot think what to say first. "Torbjorn said that you were worried."

 

"Fuckin' tosser—did he?" Junkrat runs a hand through his hair, which does seem thinner. He sighs shortly. "Thought you'd be out of here soon's you woke up, 'n I wouldn't get to say. . .I don' bloody know. . .'Sorry I blew your fuckin' leg off, mate'?"

 

Satya says nothing.

 

"I'm sayin' it now, at any rate."

 

"Do you feel guilty?" asks Satya, blankly. Then with a hint of amusement, "I am certain I was not the first to suffer this fate."

 

"Wh- I mean—" Junkrat splutters, incredulous. "'Course I feel like shit, Sym, I blew your fuckin' leg off! Not like I haven't done worse, but it's different."

 

"How is that?"

 

"I mean, say, if me 'n Hog's after you and your leg's off, you'd best reckon we're gonna finish the job, yeah?"

 

"And so. . .you feel guilty because you did not kill me?" Satya wonders without a drop of sarcasm.

 

"Are—are you bloody thick, Sym?" Junkrat wrings his hands with frustration, then takes a deep breath. "'S only the first time I'm really on a team, workin' together an' that lark, and I go and cock it up like this. That's what I mean, 'right?"

 

"Hm."

 

"So," says Junkrat, taking his gaze off the last remnants of the night's stars and looking at Symmetra instead, "you off back to Vishkar, then?"

 

"No." For some reason, she voices a quiet doubt and adds, "I am not certain they will want me."

 

"Bull dust. You're the poster girl, ain'tcha?"

 

"And I am lopsided." In truth, Symmetra doesn't know how Vishkar will react. None of the architechs she knows—and she knows many—are anything less than able-bodied.

 

"Their fuckin' loss then, eh?"

 

He does not understand. Her entire life, there has been only Vishkar. Symmetra is deeply, viscerally afraid of a life without them. She changes the subject. "What were you doing out here?"

 

"Ah, just get like this sometimes. Don't know where the fuck I am, or why's I'm there, 'n I just got to. . ." He motions animatedly with his hands.

 

"To breathe." Symmetra supplies.

 

"Reckon."

 

"Is it difficult?" blurts Symmetra. "Life. . .with prosthetic limbs."

 

"Y'get proper cosy with 'em, I'd say." Junkrat taps his rusty fingers on the railing, making a nice clanging sound.

 

"Torbjorn wants to put thrusters on mine."

 

In his surprise, Junkrat lets out a giggle, suddenly sounding his battlefield self. "That's fuckin' aces! Please tell me you said yeah."

 

"Reluctantly." Symmetra allows herself to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S C R E A M S i dont know if this is coherent at all i always get in like this writing daze during summer... idk if this makes sense.. anyway i was gonna leave this alone but there was a little interest for a sequel, so i thought hey why not and i cant stop... also how do u write junkrat im gonna run into traffic i cant write him
> 
> theres so much i wanted to cram in here but maybe i'll write more we'll see blbllblb  
> find me @shiqq if you wanna share headcanons/potential ideas!! id love to hear em :>
> 
> (((the switching from satya to symmetra to satya is intentional and changes with sym's perception of herself! ie when shes screaming in pain theres no cool collected architech theres just satya but when shes talking w torbjorn shes a professional, shes symmetra.... u feel? anyway let me know if it feels weird/unnatural tho!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In my professional opinion, you're better off going to a clinic and consulting a licensed therapist. Because our operation is technically illegal, sending for one here would be complicated."
> 
>  
> 
> "However-?" Symmetra says hopefully.
> 
>  
> 
> "However," Mercy begins, with resignation, "because many of our current agents have experience with the process of adjusting to an artificial limb, and because Torbjorn and myself are present. . .it would be possible, if—not recommended, to relearn the use of your leg here."
> 
>  
> 
> Symmetra smiles. "When can we begin?"

 

"Here's the part where you stand up," says Torbjorn dryly after a moment's quiet.

 

"Do not rush me. I am. . . admiring your work." Symmetra takes a deep breath.

 

"You're a chicken."

 

Symmetra blusters and tries to refute his accusation, but falls silent. Mutely, she runs a finger over the smooth white metal that now constitutes her right leg. "How can I be sure it will hold my weight?"

 

"I bust my rear for two weeks refining this thing for you, girl, you're going to have to have some faith in it." spits Torbjorn. Then, in softer tones, "I guarantee you she'll hold. _Av skadan blir man vis_ , hey? Experience makes you wiser."

 

Gingerly, Symmetra swings her left leg, her flesh leg, over the side of the bed, and puts her hand under the cold, unresponsive thigh of the prosthetic to make it follow suit. "What, exactly, am I to glean from this experience, then?"

 

"A little courage." grunts Torbjorn, reaching up to catch hold of her hands, which loll idly in her lap, and pulling her to her feet.

 

Symmetra shrieks at the sudden motion and, realizing what's happened, tests her weight on the metal leg. She stares resentfully down at Torbjorn, who is still holding fast to her hands and has a most infuriating grin on his face.

 

"Shall I let go?"

 

"Do not even consider it." bites Symmetra. "Fine. I will concede that your leg seems to be serving its purpose."

 

"Not my leg, your leg."

 

Symmetra swallows down a string of curses. "I am going to sit down again."

 

Unceremoniously, Torbjorn releases her, and Symmetra manages to stop another yelp as she falls onto the bed. Uncivilized little gnome. Absolute rat.

 

"Does it pinch a little?" asks Torbjorn, giving the leg an investigative tap.

 

"Slightly. I had not thought it-"

 

"Not to worry. That's fine; you're leaning a lot of weight on a lot of scar tissue. It'll take some getting used to, all right?"

 

Symmetra nods her understanding, relieved to be off her feet for the time being. Torbjorn tells her that's his part of the job done and he'll go and get Mercy—

 

"Mr. Lindholm?"

 

"Call me that again, I'll take off the good leg." growls Torbjorn.

 

"Torbjorn."

 

" _Ja_ —what?"

 

"My sincerest thanks."

 

"No trouble." mutters Torbjorn, and clears his throat. "Right—Mercy." He pads out of the infirmary.

 

A few minutes later, Mercy is pacing into the room with that refined tread Symmetra will never have again. "Good afternoon, Symmetra. Torbjorn tells me everything went well?"

 

It takes a moment for the question to register. "Ah—yes, the limb is functional."

 

"Excellent."

 

"May I ask what is next?" hesitates Symmetra. "I mean to say, it will be a while before I can get back to my work here, will it not?"

 

Mercy creases her brow. "Acclimating to a lost limb requires extensive work with a physiotherapist for several months."

 

"I am aware." She had not been aware. "And. . . there is a way to accomplish this here? With these facilities?"

 

"In my professional opinion, you're better off going to a clinic and consulting a licensed therapist. Because our operation is technically illegal, sending for one here would be complicated."

 

"However-?" Symmetra says hopefully.

 

"However," Mercy begins, with resignation, "because many of our current agents have experience with the process of adjusting to an artificial limb, and because Torbjorn and myself are present. . .it would be possible, if—not recommended, to relearn the use of your leg here."

 

Symmetra smiles. "When can we begin?"

 

"I'd give it a week or two, considering the residual limb is still largely-"

 

"Scar tissue." Symmetra suppresses a sigh. "Can I—" she stops herself and passes the sound off as a cough. The crutches function nicely and she refuses to be bedbound for two weeks. Asking for permission to travel around the base is not an option; she cannot risk a 'no'. "Thank you, Dr. Ziegler."

 

"Mercy, if you would please. Or Angela; we're all on the same team."

 

"Of course."

 

"Excellent. I'll go and get you something to eat. Oh-" she turns in the doorway to look Symmetra in the eye, frowning. "No beef, is that right? I'm afraid Jesse is cooking today. . ."

 

Symmetra's heart sinks. McCree's shifts always herald burgers or steaks or some other fatty decadent thing. "Please do not put yourself out."

 

"Ah, I'll find something." says a determined Mercy, pacing out of the infirmary. "Just-" she taps her own earpiece, "if you need me."

 

In the end Mercy returns with an apology on McCree's behalf and an unpalatable-looking side dish. Who has a barbecue with only beef? Symmetra thinks irritably, poking at the potato salad.

 

"You know, doctor, I am capable of moving around independently." she says, gesturing at the crutches by her bed.

 

"Yes, I'd prefer if you didn't go on any more midnight exploits." retorts Mercy, who has brought back a plate of her own so as not to abandon Symmetra. "How about this; in three days' time, if I've decided you are fit, you can use a wheelchair. Until then, you're stuck with me." she says sweetly.

 

Symmetra doesn't dare argue.

 

* * *

 

The first time she rolls into the mess hall, Symmetra can feel everyone staring. It's like a school cafeteria; she might as well sit by herself. Of all people, it's Junkrat who breaks the tension, bounding over to her almost right away.

 

"Oi Sym! Been a while, innit? 'Hog's missed ya!" he says obscurely, and without asking permission he wheels her back to his and Roadhog's table. Before she has a chance to speak, he continues, "Want me to getcha something? Reinhardt's made this chicken sort of thing—it's good, really it is!" he says indignantly when Symmetra's lip curls, going to the front of the room to grab a plate and prove his point.

 

"Oh." Symmetra says with real relief. It's chicken schnitzel, and it looks good. Infinitely better, she thinks, than the potato salad from a few days ago, which was cold and more mayonnaise than anything else. Thoroughly aware of the silence in the room, Symmetra takes a bite, and makes a noise of approval.

 

Junkrat swivels in his chair and calls across the room, "Oi Reinhardt! Sym says it's beaut!"

 

Reinhardt gives a hearty laugh and thanks her in his booming voice, pleasant from a distance. This seems to be the signal for the chatter in the room to revive and Symmetra feels she can breathe again.

 

"That's that then." says a satisfied Junkrat, before digging into his food as though he was starving. Looking at his build, Symmetra wonders if he has always been able to eat when he was hungry. She starts on her own plate.

 

"Thank you," she says at last, having finished, "for making that easier."

 

"What? Just now? That was nothing." Junkrat flutters one hand, waving her away. "So what's the good word, eh? Leg's gettin' better?"

 

"It isn't exactly growing back, no." Symmetra says in measured tones. Junkrat slumps a little. She backpedals immediately. There was no need for that. "I mean, yes, there has been progress. The limb is healing; Mercy says I can begin practice with the prosthetic soon."

 

"Dwarf's finished it then?"

 

Symmetra nods. "It is good-looking. No sign of any thrusters, but I suppose I should not fly before I can walk." She chuckles, proud despite herself of her little joke.

 

Junkrat snorts. Even Roadhog emits some muffled sound, broad shoulders jerking back.

 

"But let's talk about something else." Symmetra says; she isn't a shrewd socialite by any stretch, but being the only one speaking is putting her on edge. There must be something, anything to ask about. "Not to intrude, but can I ask how you lost—your—?" She gestures vaguely at him.

 

"The leg, or the arm? Ah, 's the same story anyway." says Junkrat casually. "Y'get one guess."

 

Without waiting for any response, he and Roadhog tell her in unison ("I blew meself up", ". . .blew himself up.")

 

Symmetra raises an eyebrow. "That is rather. . ."

 

"Yeah, figures, dunnit?" Junkrat gives her a sheepish half-smile.

 

"And you constructed the replacements singlehandedly."

 

"Literally." He cackles. "Well—Hog helped, 'course. Lopped off what was left of me arm too; got to do a lot of loppin' off in the wasteland, see, radiation an' all."

 

"But Mr. Winston had said you were from the Australian outback?" Symmetra asks without thinking, and jumps in her chair when Roadhog slams a beefy hand on the table, howling with mirth. On instinct, she covers her ears, but he doesn't concern himself with her. Again she notices his wheezing when he laughs—an effect of the bad air he has breathed growing up?

 

"Been to Straya recently? Mate, the Outback _is_ the wasteland." explains Junkrat, wiping tears of laughter with the back of his hand, leaving a strip of clean skin through the soot. "Actually, 'Hog's yer man if you want to know. Tell 'er, 'Hog." He elbows Roadhog.

 

Symmetra nods her interest; politics and history have never been her thing, but this is sounding like a most egregious gap in her basic knowledge.

 

Roadhog leans back in his seat and speaks for twenty minutes uninterrupted; she hangs on to his every word—or every other word, because it's difficult to parse what he's saying through the mask.

 

Symmetra gathers that as a peace offering to the omnics, the Australian government loosed them in the Outback, with no regard for those already living there; this including Roadhog. In retaliation, years ago, he founded the—ALL? ALM? She can't quite—oh, **A-L-F** , the **A** ustralian **L** iberation **F** ront.

 

My, she thinks, another revolutionary desperate to subvert government policies for personal gain. Does Overwatch attract them? Symmetra reminds herself that the two in front of her _are_ wanted vigilantes.

 

Roadhog talks with hatred about the omnics—Junkrat interjects to add a few more insults when he feels it necessary. She's so swept away in tides of "scrap heap", "bolthead", "great metal cunts", that she loses the thread of the story.

 

"I beg your pardon—you located the omnium core, and then?"

 

Roadhog lapses into his usual silence. Junkrat makes a 'boom' motion with his hands. "'Outback'," says the big man at last, "became 'wasteland'."

 

He doesn't seem to want to talk about it any further, nor does Symmetra want to pry it from him after he's already broken his silence for so long. "Very well," she begins, "this has been informative. My thanks to the both of you for allowing me to listen in." That sounds as though she was eavesdropping. She wishes she hadn't said it that way.

 

Roadhog nods.

 

"Er, need a hand there, mate?" asks Junkrat, astute as ever, watching her struggle to return the plate and move the wheelchair at the same time.

 

"If you would be so kind." Symmetra answers, feeling her face grow hot and despising her lost leg, the chair, Mercy's orders, everything that makes her so disgustingly dependent on others right now. Junkrat, the biggest reason for her helplessness, returns the plate with an obliging grin. Symmetra thanks him and wheels away as fast as her arms will allow—but no, that dreadful step-click step-click trails behind her. She stops short and lets him catch up. "Can I help you?"

 

"Just, er, on me way to the lab." says Junkrat, who sounds like he's telling a bad lie and, oddly, refuses to make eye contact with Symmetra. Fine by her, but it's out of character for him.

 

"What a coincidence." she says curtly, beginning to make her way forward again. They—the two of them, unfortunately—turn down the left hallway, to the thick white door on the end. There is a ramp, Symmetra knows, but it's much. . .steeper than she recalls?

 

Junkrat steps to the side and allows her to go first. The accursed chair has no machinery to push it forth and after a few turns of the wheels, she rolls backward down the ramp, back to square one.

 

"D'you want me to-?"

 

"No." Symmetra presses, and tries again. She makes even less progress before rolling back again. A loud sigh of frustration escapes her and she lets her head loll back, so that her face is to the ceiling. "Yes."

 

"Didn't quite catch that." Junkrat smiles mischievously, golden canine glinting. He falters under Symmetra's searing ochre glare. "Right. Push the chair. On it."

 

" _Thank_ you." Safely up, Symmetra pushes her way to her blue-and-white corner of the spacious lab. There is a half-disassembled turret still on her worktable. She sets to work where she had left off before, relieved to let muscle memory take over.

 

"Can'tcha just make those outta nothing?" Junkrat hasn't even moved from the lab's entrance, standing guard, a child in an unfamiliar house.

 

"If I do not know the structure of my creations," she fires back without taking her eyes off her work, "I am creating nothing. Are you planning to work with anything particularly _loud_ , or?"

 

"Wha—oh! Er, d'you know what, I reckon I'll leave ya to it tonight, first day out an' that." Junkrat rubs at the back of his neck with his real hand. "Lemme know if yer gonna walk on that new leg sometime soon, an'-an' I'll come cheer for ya, 'right? Hooroo then!" He speeds out of the lab, Symmetra can tell without looking, because the tempo of his step-clicking steps is quick and frantic.

 

Strange.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERES FINALLY SOME ACTUAL JUNKRAT IN THIS SYMMETRA/JUNKRAT FIC HOORAY FLY THE FUCKIN FLAGS (bonus roadhog)
> 
> so i have a confession,, i wasnt actually planning to continue this,, but all ur kind comments gave me a second wind and i wrote most of this in bursts over the past few nights and i got out of my slump!! at least somewhat
> 
> i think i accidentally dug my own grave tho, having sym find out that roadhog is a revolutionary (making junkrat a sympathizer), knowing how she feels abt civil disobedience, but i might have also made this fic more interesting we'll see??
> 
> as always, pls enjoy and if anything is maybe worded awkwardly or doesnt make sense in context please dont hesitate to let me know!!
> 
> EDIT: my tumblr is @shiqq if u wanna yell abt symmrat with me!!


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